poetry
I wrote some poetry whilst in Texas; very odd for me. Usually the idea of writing poetry is nerve-wracking enough that I don't begin. But there were too many rich things to think about while I was there, on the Ike-devastated coast.
The first is about the beach in Galveston. The second is in remembrance of a freaky tree on the corner of the street.
Her footfalls vanished with the water
From here, she may
Have walked on air.
Were she here now, she'd be Jesus.
On that ghost-beach, that invisible
strand, did she
pick shells, taste sand
hear the gulls' mournful cry?
Was she aware of her limbs and bones?
Now, girls in bikinis sunbathe
on mudlike sand brought by truck.
It isn't much of a beach.
Their toes rest on crushed shells
Pink and yellow like a baby's arm.
The foam races forward, stops,
recedes.
The ocean exhales.
The gulls reel.
This insistent life will sing its song.
Shutting
Off the sound would be
Like stopping water from a spout.
It comes.
It grabs.
See the concrete slabs
sliding sideways,
pulled all angles like
a girl at her first dance.
It is no dance,
though one acknowledges the music.
The trees know.
This one out front
has seized every square inch
available to it
with a seething mass, an incredible root-system.
It mimics lava, roils of volcanic rock
Glittering and black, impenetrable,
though apparently a living thing.
It was the first thing that met
us when the bus stopped.
This is what it takes to survive here,
says the tree.
You must become a joke, a wonder
a non-living thing
To hold on to your own six feet of earth,
this would-be home.
Some pictures, finally, from the trip. Local churches, as you can see below, are a major force for change. This one, which I helped sort donated clothes at, was holding what they called "Grace-Mart": free clothes and food to anyone who needed it. Quite often people would wander around the premises, asking when it would be open.
A Salvation Army just down the street was dealing with its own deluge of donations. These "packages" of clothing are going to needy people overseas. Only the best of the donations will end up in the store. We helped sort here too.
Lots and lots of donated shoes.
We also spent considerable time making-over the church we stayed at. Playground equipment, no matter how poor, received a rather Ronald McDonald kind of treatment - fresh costs of red and yellow paint - and we also did plenty of other painting projects and general upkeep things all over the house.
I made friends with an insane dog at a lady's house, where we cleared out brush and generally got dirty. All the guys kept commenting on how they'd never felt like such a "man" before, what with manually breaking down rotting fences and "conquering trees." Guys are interesting.
And thus concludes my Texas post. I'd love to include more, but there's only space for so much.
The first is about the beach in Galveston. The second is in remembrance of a freaky tree on the corner of the street.
Her footfalls vanished with the water
From here, she may
Have walked on air.
Were she here now, she'd be Jesus.
On that ghost-beach, that invisible
strand, did she
pick shells, taste sand
hear the gulls' mournful cry?
Was she aware of her limbs and bones?
Now, girls in bikinis sunbathe
on mudlike sand brought by truck.
It isn't much of a beach.
Their toes rest on crushed shells
Pink and yellow like a baby's arm.
The foam races forward, stops,
recedes.
The ocean exhales.
The gulls reel.
This insistent life will sing its song.
Shutting
Off the sound would be
Like stopping water from a spout.
It comes.
It grabs.
See the concrete slabs
sliding sideways,
pulled all angles like
a girl at her first dance.
It is no dance,
though one acknowledges the music.
The trees know.
This one out front
has seized every square inch
available to it
with a seething mass, an incredible root-system.
It mimics lava, roils of volcanic rock
Glittering and black, impenetrable,
though apparently a living thing.
It was the first thing that met
us when the bus stopped.
This is what it takes to survive here,
says the tree.
You must become a joke, a wonder
a non-living thing
To hold on to your own six feet of earth,
this would-be home.
Some pictures, finally, from the trip. Local churches, as you can see below, are a major force for change. This one, which I helped sort donated clothes at, was holding what they called "Grace-Mart": free clothes and food to anyone who needed it. Quite often people would wander around the premises, asking when it would be open.
A Salvation Army just down the street was dealing with its own deluge of donations. These "packages" of clothing are going to needy people overseas. Only the best of the donations will end up in the store. We helped sort here too.
Lots and lots of donated shoes.
We also spent considerable time making-over the church we stayed at. Playground equipment, no matter how poor, received a rather Ronald McDonald kind of treatment - fresh costs of red and yellow paint - and we also did plenty of other painting projects and general upkeep things all over the house.
I made friends with an insane dog at a lady's house, where we cleared out brush and generally got dirty. All the guys kept commenting on how they'd never felt like such a "man" before, what with manually breaking down rotting fences and "conquering trees." Guys are interesting.
And thus concludes my Texas post. I'd love to include more, but there's only space for so much.